cutting outside the box
joe liebgott x reader
summary: you ask joe for a haircut and he kind of has a crisis about it. he also thinks you might be in love with someone else. he’s definitely not overthinking it.
tags/warnings: friendly colleagues(?) to lovers. you’re in easy company. joe is kind of neurotic but in a really chill and low key way, at least that’s what he thinks. mostly just joe’s inner monologue. fluff? i guess. possibly excessive use of the word fuck. no use of y/n.
this fic is strictly inspired by ross mccall’s performance and by the characters in the HBO show Band of Brothers. it is not intended to depict or disrespect any real life veterans.
———————————————————————
“i’ll wait around for a day,
this porch on which i pace,
‘cause i need me mine i need me yours.”
-crazy bird, wild child
———————————————————————
TOCCOA, 1943
joe’s not sure why he agreed to this.
he could take it back. say no. tack on a joke that always comes out far meaner than intended.
something like you being a waste of his damn time. you’re not. or how he oughta charge you double just for fuckin’ bothering him. he won’t. double of zero is still zero.
the bite in his words never really lands with you though. you just squint your eyes at him like he’s one of those crusty little dogs, growling and bearing teeth too small to do any damage.
he hates that looks. makes him feel like he’s got something to prove. makes him say more bullshit. makes you keep lookin’ at him. makes him feel cornered.
he’s a goddamn paratrooper for christ sake. almost. not according to sobel. but joe ain’t a quitter, he’s getting his damn wings.
so throw the guy a bone. he’s at least one of those austrian huntin’ hounds. maybe not scary looking but damn good at sniffin’ out and killin’ hares hidden deep in the mountains.
jesus christ. this is stupid. so the fuck what. he ain’t a fucking dog and that ain’t the fucking point.
the point is, he could’ve just said no. besides, he’s got every right to be mad at you right now. not that he cares enough to be mad at you, it’s just, well—it’s sunday.
it’s fucking sunday.
he cuts your hair on saturdays.
always has. like clockwork. every other week. same time, same place. same style. you’re never late.
so where the hell were you yesterday?
had him sittin’ outside the barracks waiting for you like a chump, scissors heavy in his pocket.
shootin’ death glares at malarkey, skip, and the rest of their gossipy little mortar squad—the assholes kept fucking lookin’ at him and he could hear them snickering when he wasn’t watching.
he nearly bit tab’s head off after the guy simply asked him where you were. why the fuck should he know, he ain’t your fucking keeper. talbert didn’t push it. just put his hands up in mock surrender and walked away muttering that joe was an idiot. which was fucking rude by the way.
he was dead set on knockin’ the lights out of guarnere for raggin’ on him, girlfriend stand you up, liebgott? chuck and alley stopped him, matching expressions of… pity? on their faces that he still doesn’t really understand.
swinging on guarnere had nothing to do with you. why would it? the guy was just being a dick and joe loves any excuse to start a fight.
when fists start flying, the adrenaline rush pulls him outta his head and into his body. all that excess energy that won’t quit piling up inside him starts flowing a with purpose. sole focus on hit or get hit.
it’s a nice break from his own thoughts. landing a good clean punch on some guy’s ugly mug is pretty satisfying too, makes him a little giddy in a way he should probably unpack one day. after the war.
but now here you are. on fucking sunday. a day late, no sign of an explanation, and asking for bangs.
it bothered him. sorta. not really. just a little bit.
not because it’s you—and definitely not because you fucking ditched him—he just, uh, had things to do… yesterday. better things. like polish his boots. or maybe, um, catch up on some… reading? yeah, that’s it, reading.
he loves to read.
besides, who cares if you want bangs. he certainly doesn’t. he could shave you bald and you’d still look good. not because he thinks you’re pretty or nothin’. he’s just a damn good barber turned part-time hairstylist on saturdays. sunday?
and it’s none of his business why you stood him up. maybe you were off with fucking luz again somewhere. not that he cares. he doesn’t. he’s just, curious. mildly. only thinking about it like a normal amount. he ain’t stewing in it.
he wouldn’t call himself an over-thinker, more of a schemer really. but he ain’t a dweller. ain’t a worrier.
he’s easy-going, for the most part. friendly. funny. it’s not his fault people get easily offended. and yeah, he’s got a little bit of a temper. a teeny bit of rage stuck deep in his bones. but who doesn’t?
he should be mad at you for blowin’ him off yesterday. say something stupid that makes you cuff him on the back of the head. he doesn’t. but something about your request is starting to piss him off. mostly because there ain’t nothin’ truly weird about the request itself.
it’s a pretty popular style and, if he’s being honest, it wouldn’t look half bad on you. it’s just that, he’s been cutting your hair for the better part of a year now and you’ve never once mentioned wanting bangs.
and why would you? bangs are completely impractical out in the field. they’d require constant maintenance. and what if you skipped one of your haircuts again? they’d start to cover up your eyes and your eyes are pretty. um, prettygoodatreadingmapsandshit. bangs need constant touch ups.
so what gives?
does fucking luz like bangs? the guy’s always talkin’ bout rita hayworth this and marlene dietrich that. right in front of you too. and look, he likes luz just fine, but you and luz? he just doesn’t see it.
but you’re looking at him weirdly now. waiting for him to answer and smiling in a way that sort of makes you look constipated.
fuck it, he ain’t gonna let that crummy excuse of a barber from Dog do it.
he takes a step forward, reaching his hand around your head to pull out your hair-tie and let your hair down. a familiar motion by now. it’s not weird, he’s a barber. his fingers carefully start smoothing out your hair, tugging the strands back in place around your face. he takes a half step back and assesses, ignoring the weird feeling building in his chest.
bangs, huh?
his mouth felt kinda dry. probably the cigarettes.
“sobel’s gonna have a fit.”
“exactly,” you said, now smiling in a way he’s more familiar with.
“you gotta death wish or somethin’?”
“yeah, obviously,” you said. “i’m gonna be a fucking paratrooper.”
“in your dreams,” he scoffed, mocking grin spreading across his face. “you woulda blown away and gone airborne again if i hadn’t cut you outta your ‘chute after the last jump.”
“my fucking hero,” you deadpanned. “and you know the buckle was jammed.”
yeah, he did. you both got chewed out by the supply officer for that one. after the guy finished his rant, you smacked the buckle down on the table with a defiant, ‘open it.’ a carnivorous look in your eyes that joe still thinks about a little more than he’d care to admit.
his face felt a little warm. too much sun probably. “c’mon, i gotta grab the scissors from my footlocker.”
you didn’t reply. just fell into step beside him. you were acting normal but he still felt a antsy. on edge.
you really weren’t gonna say nothin’ about it being sunday? he sure as fuck wasn’t gonna be the one to bring it up first. instead he settled on, “you doin’ this to fuck with sobel?”
“no.” you said, like it was obvious. then why?
“is it even regulation?”
a mix of amusement and mild disbelief crossed your face, “just because sink’s looking out for me, doesn’t mean i can just blatantly flaunt the rules.”
okay, fair enough. but his curiosity was starting to get the better of him. he still didn’t get why.
“how you gonna manage bangs in a war? you ain’t gonna have fuckin’ curlers in your foxhole.”
“i know a guy,” you said with a shrug. there was a look in your eye he’s never seen before. fondness maybe? his stomach felt weird, a bitterness hitting the back if his throat.
“yeah, i’m sure luz will find you some real nice beauty pamperin’ shit on his radio,” he said, half joking and too harsh. “it’s a good thing too, you’ll need it.”
a flash of hurt crossed your face, quick enough he almost doubted he saw it at all, before settling back to something more neutral. he felt a little guilty.
“yeah, well, george said guys like bangs. just thought i’d try them out.” so you’re callin’ him george now? figures.
“that’s stupid. if a guy don’t like you, he don’t like you. bangs ain’t gonna change his fuckin’ mind,” he said, clipped and cold.
as you two reached the barracks, he heard you mumble something about waiting outside. whatever.
joe walked inside feeling more agitated with each step. you’re doing this for luz.
maybe he really should say no, that bangs ain’t his specialty. does luz even like you back?
this whole thing, your request, felt off. you’re really goin’ through all this trouble for a guy?
it’s stupid really. you of all people don’t need to change anything for someone to like you. but what’s it matter what he thinks? you ain’t doing this for him.
this restless sort of feeling, one he’s gotten pretty fucking good at ignoring, is starting to make itself known. poking it’s head out of the once tightly sealed, unlabeled box he kept tucked in the back corner of his mind.
it’s just a fucking haircut. so why the fuck does he care so much.
he’ll cut the hair of any Easy guy with 15 cents to spare—does a damn good job too—crew cuts, mohawks, you name it.
he won’t blink once, let alone twice, about charging the chumps in other companies 20 cents a cut, especially those ugly mugs from Fox.
he’ll hand out ‘officer discounts’ with a toothy grin—no funny business, sir. scout’s honor, sir. just 10 cents a cut, sir.—and, halfway through the job—gee, my hands are real tired, sir. it’d sure help me keep ‘em steady knowing i got a weekend pass waitin’ for me, sir. works every time.
but with you? joe’s never really known how to act around you.
it doesn’t help that you’ve been acting different lately too. always trailing after fucking luz, laughing like he must be the funniest guy in the world. he ain’t. joe’s heard his jokes, his impressions. he’ll admit luz does a good major horton, but his colonel sink just ain’t that funny.
it’s frustrating. you’re frustrating.
you don’t fit into the carefully organized boxes in his head. he’s got his friends, his Easy brothers, his fellow paratroopers, his family, his enemies, and so on. there’s some overlap and subfolders among the boxes in his mind, but still nowhere to put you.
he thought maybe you were starting cross over into the friends territory. you had a standing date appointment every other saturday, tucked right between breakfast and PT, where he’d cut your hair. trimming just enough to stay within regulation and keep sobel off your back.
but you’re not really friends, more like friendly colleagues maybe? tab’s his friend. grant and alley are his friends. best friends even. he could shoot the shit with those fellas for days and not get bored.
not to say he gets bored talking to you. he likes talking to you, but you make him feel sort of antsy and on edge in a way his friends definitely do not.
so no, you’re not goin’ in the box of friends.
you’re tough as nails and more than proved you belong in Easy with the rest of the men, but you sure as shit don’t feel like a brother to him.
so no, you’re not goin’ in that box either.
he supposes you are a fellow paratrooper but that feels too informal. that’s the box with those idiots from Dog and Fox and he’s certainly not gonna put you in there with them.
and you’re definitely not his enemy. krauts are enemies. stupid scotty who pushed him off his bike in front of the whole class and laughed at him for cryin’ when he was nine was his enemy. different levels, he ain’t gonna shoot stupid scotty like a kraut but he’d be more than happy to see karma bite him in the ass.
although the glare you shot him back when you first arrived in toccoa must’ve almost put him in your box of enemies. he probably would’ve deserved it too. he lacked a filter on a good day. liked to default to insults and sarcasm to fill gaps in conversation.
but in his defense he wasn’t expecting to see someone like you signing up to be in the airborne. walkin’ around cockier than half the guys knowing sobel couldn’t do a damn thing about you being there, not with colonel sink breathing down his neck.
it was infuriating.
but joe doesn’t hate you.
so no, you’re not goin’ in his box of enemies.
you’re not his friend, not his brother, not just a fellow paratrooper or his enemy. and that unlabeled box with the restless feeling he keeps hidden deep in the back of his mind is starting to open up, forcibly getting dragged into the light.
oh fuck. he feels sick.
he sort of wants to shout at you, which fucking box are you supposed be in and where the fuck were you yesterday?
thank god you’re outside, maybe you’ll just go away if he just stays in here. maybe he can just lock everything back up and pretend he never knew how he fe—
“uh, joe?”
fuck. the thing is he does know. he knows what box you’re in. he knows it ain’t unlabeled. he knows why he’s kept it firmly shut and locked away. he knows, despite what he told you, that your hair don’t actually grow fast enough to get cut every other week. he knows why he’s upset you didn’t show up yesterday. he knows why guarnere’s comment got to him. he knows how he feels.
he fucking knows.
and he knows you don’t feel the same goddamn way.
so you and that restless feeling gotta go back in your box. shoved back into the depths of his mind, away and forgotten.
“joe, you okay?” christ, when the fuck did you come in? “‘cause it’s been like 10 minutes and you said you were just grabbing scissors. and you look sort of—”
he feels fucking pathetic. he’s gotta say something. he’s gotta get you to leave. he’s gotta, he’s gotta do something—leave. you gotta leave, you gotta get back inside your box so he can pretend like none of this ever happened.
“—sort of, like pale and shit,” you paused, stepping closer. “should i get doc?”
“WHY ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR BOX?!”
“excuse me?”
“shit.”
you’re eyes were wide—clearly confused, taken aback, and heavily concerned. you also looked sort of pissed?
“joe, what the fuck.”
“i—”
“my fucking what?”
“it ain’t what it sounded like,” he said defensively.
“yeah, no shit. because i have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. what fucking box?”
joe stayed silent, refusing to look at you. not trusting himself to say much else.
“seriously,” you said, much softer than he deserved. “what the fuck is wrong with you today?” you meant it sort of like a joke but the tone of concern was unmistakeable.
joe fumbled for the pack of smokes in his pocket. pulling out two mildly squished cigarettes and offering one to you. an olive branch, or maybe a white flag.
you took the smoke and sat down on the corner of his cot. his hands were a little unsteady as he flicked open the lighter, fire catching on the tip of his cigarette, before tossing it to you and taking a deep drag.
“so,” he began, “why you, uh, tryin’ so hard to—” to change yourself? no, that didn’t sit right with him, it’s just fucking hair. you’re still you. to impress luz? he didn’t wanna hear the answer to that.
he shook his head, starting over, “it’s sunday.”
“i know.”
“and yesterday was saturday.”
“correct.”
“where were you?”
you had the audacity to look sheepish.
so you didn’t forget, you ditched him on purpose.
“were you—” he paused, words working their way past the lump in his throat, “are you with luz?”
the guilty look on your face told him all he needed to know.
fuck this. he tossed the forgotten smoke between his fingers into the ashtray. “hope you guys are fucking happy,” he muttered as he moved to leave.
“wait, joe,” you said, grabbing his sleeve as he stood up. “it’s not like that.”
“then what is it like?” he snapped
“we’re not together.”
“why the fuck would i think we were together?” joe spat, angry and desperate for this conversation to be over.
“george and i are not together,” you corrected.
“uh-huh.”
“george just thought that, well, he thought maybe it would bother you. make you… and i thought maybe the,” gesturing to your hair, “i dunno. i guess i just thought getting something fussy would mean more haircuts.”
joe didn’t really understand the look on your face and he didn’t trust the little flicker of hope in his chest.
“more haircuts?” he asked hesitantly.
“more haircuts. more time with you.”
“…with me?” no fucking way. “why?”
“jesus christ, joe,” you said, patience cracking. “do i have to spell it out for you?”
he squinted his eyes at you, sizing you up. trying to decipher if what you’re trying to say is the same as what he wants you to say.
“so yesterday, were you intentionally maneuverin’ me?”
“yes.” you said, face puckered like you ate a lemon.
he smiled, genuine and a little shit eating, “then yeah, you have to spell it out for me.”
“i hate you.” but your eyes were warm. happy.
“no, you don’t.” he said, not even trying hide the huge, smug smirk growing on his face.
“no, i don’t.”
“you like me,” he teased.
“you know for a guy who looked ready to throw up 30 seconds ago, you’re awfully fucking smug right now.”
“but you like me.”
“yeah, i do.”
“you still want your haircut? i got a new discount goin’.”
“more discounted than free?” you asked. he’s threatened to, but he’s never actually charged you for a cut before.
“fine, not a discount then. call it a special offer. a limited time bundle.”
“what is it a haircut and a kiss?” you said sarcastically.
“a barber and a boyfriend.” he grinned, “but i’ll throw in the kiss for free.”
———————————
6 DAYS LATER, SATURDAY:
joe kind of wants to hold you hand. instead he rips out a few blades of grass and focuses his attention on splitting them right down the middle the long way.
some of the guys know you’re together now. others just sort of assumed. he found out luz knew how you both felt about each other before either of you even realized it yourselves. the bastard. but you both knew it was best to keep it quiet, especially in front of the officers.
“sweetheart!” luz said with a shitty grin on his face, “your hair looks gorgeous. don’t you think, joe?”
“well i fucking cut it, of course it looks pretty.” you quirked an eyebrow. hasty cover rushing out of his mouth, “uh, pretty good.”
that restless feeling he used box up and lock away was morphing into something calmer. softer. settling down and easing up the more time he let it out of its box. it was starting to feel a lot more like something he could name. it was a little soon to share, but maybe he wouldn’t overthink it when the time was right.
he definitely overthought it, but it felt a whole lot less scary when he was with you.
———————————
OFFICERS’ BARRACKS:
“looks like the kids are gonna be just fine,” nixon said, nodding towards the two of you through the window. “right, dick?”
“they’re not very subtle,” winters replied.
“liebgott follows her around with puppy dog eyes,” welsh chimed in.
“c’mon, it’s sweet,” nixon said. “plus, kitty’s not even here, harry, and you’re still somehow worse than liebgott is.”
“if sobel notices, there’s not much i can do to protect them,” winters continued.
“oh have a heart, dick. it’s young love.”
“and at least they’re trying,” welsh added. “besides, sobel can’t even read a map. no way he notices.”
nixon laughed at that. winters may have even cracked a smile.
———————————————————————
a/n: this is legit my first time actually posting a fic like ever? i’ve jumped from hyper fixation to hyper fixation for years, living off of other people’s big beautiful brains. but i’m pretty sure i’ve read like every liebgott fic multiple times by now, so i’m throwing my hat in the ring.
blame it on the cocky bastard with great hair and a whole lot of trauma who had the audacity to look hot covered in dirt. also please be nice, i wrote this on my phone and the formatting is kind of fucked up. i have no idea how many words this is either.
